Director Towne silently rebukes him, then turns to Ify. “Many of the afflicted refugees have come from Nigeria or the area immediately surrounding it. What we’re suggesting is a fact-finding mission. If the disease is coming from Nigeria—”

“Director Towne,” she growls. Regret swims through her. The rest of the committee leans back in their chairs. Towne pauses. There isn’t the slightest hint of a smile on his face, no recognition of Ify’s moment of courage, no approval. But then he doesn’t look affronted either. Sheer expressionlessness.

“If information on the epidemic can be found, we are confident that it can be found there. As director of the Refugee Program, you have the deepest knowledge and first-hand experience of this crisis. And, as a Nigerian refugee yourself, you understand what has been happening in your country.”

She wants to tell him that she hasn’t been back in almost five years. That she has left that part of her behind. Completely. The way she talks, the way she carries herself. All of it an effort to put Nigeria squarely where it belongs: in the past. Everything she did, everything she loved, everything she was. It’s supposed to be gone now.

But she can’t tell him any of that. So, instead, she says, “I think that is a prudent course of action.”

Still that lack of expression from Director Towne. “Great. Details will be forwarded to you shortly. You can leave now. Oh, and your assistant will be accompanying you.”

Angry shock rips through Ify. She resists the impulse to look behind her to see Grace’s face. She has no idea why Towne would issue this order, nor does she have time to puzzle it out, because he nods at her—swift, perfunctory—to dismiss her.

Grace follows Ify out. It’s not until the doors to the committee chamber have closed behind Ify that she realizes her hands have been shaking.

■  ■  ■  ■  ■

While Grace packs, Ify keeps the lights off in her office. Her Bonder sits in a steel box on her desk. The blinds are drawn. Not a single device in the room blinks to indicate it’s been turned on. She still hasn’t been able to stop shaking. But the tremors running through her have lessened. The first few times she’d tried to hold a stylus, she’d dropped the thing and it had clattered on her table like an accusation.